


When the Levee Breaks

by Lila82



Series: Catastrophe and the Cure [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Raven grieve; Bellamy and Wick try to help them through it.  </p><p>(Or Five Drinks Bellamy Shares with Wick and One He Shares with Clarke).</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Levee Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Part II in my post-2x08 series, "Catastrophe and the Cure".

 

* * *

 

**I. Bad Ideas**

  


To Bellamy’s credit, Wick starts it.

He’s sitting in the makeshift bar area, eyes trained on the main body of the Ark. Clarke’s in there with Abby and Kane, and the metal door had clanged shut with a jarring bang as Clarke disappeared behind it. The bloody knife was still clenched in her fist. 

She’s likely been disarmed, but it’s a bad idea. A really bad idea. Abby’s overbearing and hard-headed on a good day, and Bellamy can picture her brushing Clarke’s hair from her face and crooning words of comfort in her ear. 

But Bellamy knows Clarke, knows her better than he deserves, and he can see her too. He can see the dull blue of her eyes and the tense set of her mouth as she shuts down. It’s a good coping mechanism, and one he knows well. He clenches his fist at the memory of the long year after he killed his mother, sentenced his sister to the same fate.

It’s a bad idea but Abby’s chancellor and has the guns, and he has no say in it. It’s becoming a pattern, the number of things that no longer belong to him. He takes out his knife and lets it drop, watches the sharp point catch in the worn wood of the tabletop. The knife is from the dropship and he feels a smug jolt of satisfaction as he spins the blade and it digs in deeper. It’s about the only part of this place that he can control. 

Someone kicks at the opposite stool and Bellamy glances up sharply to meet Wick’s gaze. He knows the other guy a bit, mostly because he helps with the fence when they’re sneaking through Raven’s Gate, but when Wick slides a canteen and two bent metal cups across the table, Bellamy thinks that he might like him.

Wick doesn’t say anything as he drops into the empty seat and twists off the canteen’s top. Bellamy can smell the fumes and he’s never had the stomach for liquor, but it can’t hurt to take the edge off some. He nods a greeting as Wick fills his cup. 

It’s moonshine, raw and burning, but it’s better than what the remnants of Agro Station have been brewing on the ground. Bellamy thinks it might actually be from the Ark, one final relic of a life he barely remembers. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Wick asks and takes a sip of his moonshine. His tone is casual, but Bellamy doesn’t miss the way his eyes are focused on the entrance to Raven’s tent.

Bellamy watches for movement outside the council room, but Clarke’s still in there and he’s still out here. His fingers tighten around the cool metal of his cup. He takes a long pull of moonshine and smiles through the burn. “No.”

“Me neither,” Wick agrees and takes another sip. When their cups are empty, he pours them more. 

They sit in companionable silence and nurse their moonshine. Wick keeps looking for Raven. Bellamy wishes he could be with Clarke.

 

* * *

 

 **II. Hangovers and Hair Braids**

  


He feels the moonshine the next morning. 

His head is pounding and his stomach is queasy and does a weird little flip flop when he stumbles into the mess tent. Their food supply is mostly comprised of some variety of charred meat and he actually feels last night’s dinner in his mouth when he walks past the spit. He takes a bowl of weak porridge and collapses at a table far from the fire; he also makes a mental note to skip lunch and dinner. 

He’s holding his head in his hand when Wick sits down across from him. “Here,” Wick says through the haze of Bellamy’s hangover and pushes something hot against his hand. “This should help.”

Bellamy looks at him through bleary eyes and blows on his mug. Whatever it is, the steam feels good against his face. “What is this?”

Wick shrugs and takes a sip. He grimaces but doesn’t push it away. “Something the Agro team cooked up. I think they call it chicory.”

Bellamy takes a small sip and works to hide his own grimace. The stuff tastes disgusting, but something about it settles his stomach. He blows again and takes a larger sip. “Thanks.”

Across the hall, Raven limps into the tent and Wick perks up. He makes a move as if to get up, but Bellamy isn’t really looking at her and he can feel the heat of her glare. Wick slumps back into his seat and Raven takes a mug of chicory and leaves without a word. 

Neither of them talk. Wick, because he’s likely embarrassed, and Bellamy, because he has no idea what to say. Raven is his friend and he’d probably die for her because she’s one of his people, but she was a bitter pill to swallow before Clarke stuck a knife into Finn’s chest. Still, he can’t help but admire the guy a little more for trying. It makes him like him even more too, and he keeps being quiet so his – friend? co-commiserator? – can save face in silence.

The chicory is growing on him and he’s just taken a sip that didn’t taste like swallowing death when Clarke walks into the tent. He doesn’t see her, but he feels her, and not just from the low murmur that fills the air. His chest tightens and he glances up and she’s there, all pale skin and shadowed cheeks and bleak, stricken eyes. She doesn’t look at him as she follows her mother to the front of the line and takes a bowl of porridge. 

His eyes narrow as Abby puts a hand on her daughter's back and steers her towards a table. Clarke doesn’t protest, but Bellamy notices the way her shoulders stiffen. Across the room, Abby stares at him, and while she doesn’t say anything, he can read the threat written across her face. 

He turns back to his mug and scowls into its depths. He knows Abby loves her daughter, but she rarely seems to do what’s best for her. 

Wick follows his gaze and returns his scowl. “I tried to talk to Raven this morning. The Chancellor said she’d throw me against the fence if I didn’t give her some space.” He pauses, thinks a moment. “I’m not sure that she was kidding.”

“If she could, she’d lock me in the brig for the rest of my life.” Bellamy pushes away the dregs of his drink. “Clarke’s my friend, but her mom has the Guard.” He represses a shiver from the memory of the cattle prod at the dropship. His hands sink to his lap and twist around each other. It hurts, but it gives him something to think about besides how useless he feels.

“So what do we do?” Wick’s eyes are hopeful, like Bellamy has all the answers, and it makes him feel a little more like himself. 

“We let them know that we’re here,” Bellamy says. “We let them tell us what they need.”

Wick nods thoughtfully before a look of horror crosses his face. “In those old movies, girls eat ice cream and do each other’s makeup to feel better. Does this mean we have to braid their hair?”

Bellamy wishes it were that simple, because at least he’d be in familiar territory. He didn’t spend sixteen years with a little sister without picking up a few skills. “If it comes to that, I’ve got it covered,” he says dryly and Wick looks more grateful than terrified. 

“Refill?” Wick asks and Bellamy nods, turns his attention back to Clarke. 

He can only see the rigid line of her shoulders and the hair falling from its twists. He knows Wick was kidding, but he wasn’t. He can’t take away Clarke’s pain, but he could put his hands in her hair, braid the strands away from her face. He could do this one thing for her, ease some of the weight she still carries. Wick returns with their chicory and Clarke must feel his eyes on her because she slowly turns in her seat. 

Bellamy chokes on his drink and it burns his tongue. All he sees are dull blue eyes that look right through him.

 

* * *

 

**III. Sunny Side Up**

  


They assign him to the building team.

It’s not his first choice, but Bellamy’s seen worse fates; he could have been put on latrine duty. Plus, he likes working with his hands, likes the way his muscles ache by day’s end, likes how he can see the product of his work in the cabins they’re building to get through winter. With the truce holding, his team even ventures into the woods some days to fell trees. He can’t complain about breathing free air.

He’d thought about pushing back, that first day when Abby looked at him over the messy surface of her desk, all smug satisfaction. Except he’d known that it would roll back on Clarke, another burden for her to carry, and he’d gritted his teeth and accepted the role without protest; he’d felt his own tug of satisfaction when Abby’s face fell. She’d expected a fight, and he was happy to take away the opportunity for her to throw him in the brig. 

It’s hard work though, sweaty too, and he takes a break mid-day, slowly lowers himself to a tree stump against the wants of his protesting muscles. He stretches his legs, feels the burn all the way through his hips. 

His water bottle is lukewarm, but it feels good as it soothes the dry column of his throat. There’s a sweetness to it, something pure and clean lingering on his tongue. Even distilled rainwater tastes better than anything they had all those years in the sky.

He dumps a bit over his head and sets the canteen down to run a hand over the back of his neck and scrub away some of the grit. When he reaches for the bottle, it’s gone, but Wick is sitting on the neighboring stump.

“So fresh and so clean, clean,” Wick sings as he takes a hearty swig and wipes his mouth. “I will never miss that recycled piss we used to drink on the Ark.”

Bellamy frowns at the memory and takes the bottle back, wipes the rim before he takes another sip. 

Wick laughs and leans back on his stump. “I don’t have mouth herpes.”

Bellamy shrugs and screws on the cap. “I don’t know where your mouth has been.”

The smile falls from Wick’s face as he gazes across the camp to where Raven is dragging her leg into the engineering tent. “Nowhere interesting lately.”

Bellamy catches a flash of gold, Clarke’s hair gleaming in the sunlight. She’s heading into the council room to debrief her latest meeting with Lexa, and he aches to grip the tight set of her shoulders, dig in his fingers and work out the kinks. When she vanishes into the Ark, Bellamy feels that familiar frustration blister across his chest. She shouldn’t have to do so much alone. 

Wick follows his sightline and sighs. “We wait, right? Give them space.”

“I did say that,” Bellamy agrees, concedes the point. 

Wick laughs, nudges his shoulder. “The sun’s shining, Blake, and we’re at peace. Small victories, you know?”

It’s Bellamy’s turn to sigh, because Wick’s right. It’s a beautiful day and no one else has died; no one has forced more weight on Clarke. “Yeah,” he says, tilts his face to the sun. “Small victories.”

 

* * *

 

  


**IV. Safe Spaces**

Abby gives him a gun.

She looks furious and a bit like she hates herself, but she still hands him a loaded rifle and three extra clips. “You’ll be accompanying Clarke to her meetings with the Commander,” Abby explains. She crosses her arms and fixes him with a glare. “You’re her bodyguard. There’s no reason for you to say anything.”

Bellamy takes the gun and nods to let her know that he understands, and he's pretty proud of how he doesn't even roll his eyes. It’s raining today, but Clarke is waiting for him by the gate and he hustles out to meet her.

“Like old times, huh?” he asks as she starts the trek to Lexa’s camp while he follows behind as the backup. She doesn’t reply, but the tension in her shoulders does ease a bit.

She doesn’t say anything to him during the walk, or when they arrive at the Grounder camp, or even during the meeting. She looks at him though, when Lexa asks an important question about the plan of attack, and he nods, just the slightest quirk of his chin, to let her know he agrees with her suggestion. More tension slips from her shoulders and he looks to the ground to hide his grin.

So he’s in a good mood when they arrive back at Camp Jaha, even though Clarke abandons him at the gate to discuss the meeting with her mother. He’s holding a keg too, some kind of Grounder beer that they gave him for serving as Clarke’s second. Lexa had looked pleased and Indra had looked relieved and Bellamy had a felt more like himself, standing just behind Clarke while she hammered out terms with the Grounder leadership.

It’s almost dark but the mess tent hasn’t opened for dinner yet, so he pokes his head in engineering and nods at Wick. 

“Grounder brew,” he says and holds up the keg. “Feeling brave?”

Wick whistles as he puts down his tablet. “I’m losing feeling in my ass.” He stretches and takes a quick look at the back of the room. “I have ten minutes before my taskmaster returns.”

They take the keg to the bar and use Bellamy’s knife to pry off the lid. The beer is yeasty and bitter, kind of like liquid bread. He doesn’t much care for the taste, but likes the slight buzz that warms its way through his chest.

“To peace,” Wick says and Bellamy clicks cups with him. It’s hard to remember that only two months before, all the Grounders wanted was their heads on spikes. Now, they’re sharing their alcohol. 

They don’t say much after that, just sip their warm beer and watch the sky turn a deep shade of inky purple, but they look up in unison when someone kicks dirt up on their boots. 

“Is there more to go around?”

Murphy is standing there and Bellamy can’t see his face in the growing darkness, but he already knows the look in his eyes. Murphy has been a constant shadow since they returned to camp, a sharp-tongued snake of a shadow, but also eager for acceptance. Bellamy doesn’t trust him in the least, but he can tolerate him now.

If Wick knows Murphy’s history, he doesn't let on, just grabs the keg and offers it up. “Got a cup?” Murphy holds out a canteen and Wick shrugs, carefully pours beer into the rusted metal bottle. 

Bellamy watches silently, sips his beer and tries to reclaim some peace and quiet, but Wick shows his true colors, and Bellamy starts to understand why Raven trusted the guy. “So, what was he like?” 

Murphy and Bellamy exchange glances, and Murphy hesitates, waits for Bellamy’s nod before he answers. “Who?”

Wick rolls his eyes and pours more beer. “The Spacewalker.” Again, silence. 

“He’s dead,” Bellamy says and Murphy winces beside him.

Wick’s thoughtful as he takes a long pull of beer, but he doesn’t let the subject slide. “He has half the ladies in this camp twisted up in knots. Did the guy have a magic dick?” 

More silence, and Murphy’s looking at Bellamy again. It’s exhausting, the heaviness of Murphy’s need, the constant yearning to belong, and Bellamy opens the conversation rather than deal with it anymore. “He had good hair.”

Murphy lets out a breath and nods along. “Puppy dog eyes. Made me want to kick him, but the girls all loved it.”

Wick rolls his eyes again, but when he looks at them again, his expression is serious. “This is a safe space. I’m genuinely curious.”

“I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but he was the King of the Assholes,” Murphy says and kicks at the dirt. “Two people died on the way down because of him and no one did a thing about it.”

Bellamy feels his cheeks heat and he’s grateful for the darkness that hides them. He’d forgotten about those kids, the bodies Wells buried their first morning on the ground, and quick judgment he’d sent Murphy’s way a week later. “He had good ideas,” Bellamy finally says. “He wanted peace, wanted us to be better, but he couldn’t lead to save his life.” He winces at his choice of words, but it does a lot to ease the building tension. 

“No shit,” Murphy adds and a genuine laugh bubbles through the trio. 

It feels foreign in his chest and Bellamy realizes he can’t remember the last time he laughed. He doesn’t stop though. He likes the way it makes him feel, like they’re back in the sky and his mom’s still alive. One day, he hopes he’ll feel the same way about the life he’s living on the ground.

It’s also the same moment that Raven appears, arms wrapped so tightly across her chest that Bellamy’s worried she’ll crack a rib. She comes to an ungainly halt before them and fixes Wick with a scorching glare. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bellamy watches Wick’s smile fall as Raven’s lip curls into a malicious sneer. “Those silencers aren’t going to build themselves,” she snaps, inclines her head towards engineering. “You might have more important things to do, but _I_ have people to save.” 

Wick puts aside his cup and pushes to his feet while Bellamy and Murphy make quick work of studying the ground. He bows low and takes Raven’s hand as he rises. Bellamy thinks, on a better day, he might even press a kiss to its back. “Whatever milady wishes is my command.”

Raven looks dumbstruck, her mouth actually hanging open, and Bellamy thinks she might be fighting back a smile. “Whatever, Wick,” she says and jerks her hand away. “Get moving.”

She starts for engineering and Wick follows, turns briefly to throw a wink over his shoulder. Bellamy nods in return, glad Wick’s making some progress. It’s the most he’s seen Raven interact with a human being since Finn died.

There’s another scuffle of feet and Murphy’s the one rising from his seat. “And that’s my cue,” he says and heads towards the mess tent. 

Bellamy looks up and Clarke’s there, biting her lower lip as she studies him. He smiles, just because she’s there, because there are so many stars in the sky and she’s beautiful as she squints down at him. 

“I just wanted to say thank you for coming to the meeting today.” Her tone is all business, but Bellamy doesn’t miss the emotion that she’s that she’s trying to hide, the relief that she no longer has to deal with Grounders on her own.

He wants to touch her, take her hand or brush her hair from her face, but he only smiles wider. “I’ll always have your back,” he promises and she nods briskly, starts back for the council room. 

She pauses though, by the door, looks back once with the barest hint of a smile on her face. 

It warms Bellamy all the way through to his heart, because Clarke is looking at him, _seeing him_ , and his entire world is bright blue eyes that don’t look through him.

 

* * *

 

**V. Switzerland**

  


They run out of moonshine. 

Or at least, the moonshine Wick brought from the sky, because almost a month after Finn died, Bellamy’s nursing a cup of something earth-brewed and praying it’s not burning holes in his stomach. He was there when Abby cut Raven open without anesthesia; the last thing he needs is a moonshine-induced ulcer.

He doesn’t cough though, which is better than Wick, but he does need to lean his head against the twisted metal of the Ark to force the stuff down. 

“This is foul,” Wick says but takes an enthusiastic gulp. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” He takes another pull, winces as he swallows. “Maybe not.”

“I’ll see if I can get more beer tomorrow.” Bellamy contemplates a sip, but thinks better of it. The half cup he suffered through has done enough damage.

“Raven asked me to give you this,” Wick breaks into the quiet and hands Bellamy a silencer. “She wants you to test it before the meeting tomorrow.”

Bellamy nods, tucks the gadget into his pocket. It’s been three weeks since the ceasefire was called and it’s almost time for the mission to launch. He goes against his better judgment and takes a sip of his moonshine; it’s better than thinking about what could happen in the mountain. 

“Things seem better between you,” he says, just to be friendly. It’s become a nightly tradition, drinking with Wick, and he wants to support his buddy. He’s happy for him, even if he mourns his lack of progress with Clarke.

“She’s talking to me,” Wick agrees. “Sometimes I think she’ll slice my head off her tongue is so sharp, but she’s speaking words instead of grunting. I’ll take it.”

Bellamy bites his own tongue, contemplates how to proceed. It’s been on his mind these past weeks, the truth he needs to reveal, and while he doesn’t want to bring it up, it only feels right. It’s a pretty big thing not to tell his friend.

“You could try sleeping with her,” Bellamy offers. “She’s good at that.”

He expects a curse, or maybe even a punch, but Wick just arches an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?”

Bellamy lets out a relieved laugh. “After she broke up with Finn. I’m pretty sure she just used me for my body, but I didn’t complain.”

“I could be down with that.” Wick’s tone is light and lets Bellamy know that he isn’t holding a grudge. They were different people then and Bellamy wanted different things.

Wick seems agreeable, but Bellamy realizes he isn’t. He remembers that night, the dull, empty feeling in his chest when Raven rolled off his hips. He doesn’t want to go back there. He glances at Clarke as she exits medical, realizes he wants more. He misses it, soft skin and wet, hot heat surrounding him, but it seems gross when no matter the girl he only sees one face. 

A few yards away, Raven leaves engineering and the girls watch each other, circle warily like gladiators in the ring. Bellamy makes a move to help, but Wick grabs his shoulder. “Switzerland,” he says, gestures between them. “This is one place where we can’t get involved.”

The girls keep eyeing each other before retreating to their separate corners. Clarke follows her mother into the Ark, Raven storms towards the fence. Bellamy lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

It doesn’t matter that Clarke can save herself. The only place he wants to be is by her side.

 

* * *

 

**+I. Summer On His Tongue**

  


It ends with Bellamy and Clarke huddled in the shadow of the fence and sharing a bottle of Lexa’s dandelion wine. 

There’s a celebration going on around them, some kind of commemorative feast, and there’s been lots of toasts Bellamy doesn’t understand and songs he can’t sing and dances that make him look like a fool, and he’s been with Wick for the better part of an hour while his friend makes moon eyes at Raven. 

She’s sitting with Monroe and Mel, tapping her good foot to the beat of the music while the Grounders twirl and sway and move their hips in ways that make him wish he were pressed up against Clarke. His sister is in there too, doing similarly obscene things with Lincoln, but he’s working on letting her be her own person and so long as he’s not an uncle before summer, he thinks he’ll be okay. He puts down his cup before he crushes it completely. He’s _working_ on being okay.

He looks for Clarke in the crowd, searches for the glimmer of golden hair in the firelight, but she’s nowhere to be found. He’s not worried per se – he trusts the Grounders enough to believe they won’t kill Clarke, or risk Lexa’s wrath – but it makes him nervous to think she’s on her own. It’s barely been a month since Finn died and he’s yet to hear her speak a full sentence that isn’t about rescuing their people from Mt. Weather.

He’s not completely surprised to find her by the fence, knees drawn to her chest and chin resting on her forearms as she looks out and into the empty Grounder camp. It takes him a moment, but the post – Finn’s post – is a stark contrast to the tents and torches.

She doesn’t look up as he sits beside her, but he can’t miss the silvery tracks of tears on her cheeks. He holds his rifle tighter to keep from brushing them away.

“I was supposed to save him,” she says, stares intently at the post. “I was supposed to save him and I killed him instead.”

He follows her gaze, squints in the darkness, tries to see what she sees. It’s just a post though, and her memories are her own. He can’t begin to know what she’s thinking. “You saved us,” he says softly. “We have a truce because of you. We’ll bring Jasper and Monty and the rest of them home because of you.” 

She shakes her head and fresh tears slip from her eyes. “There’s always a cost. Wells, Charlotte…Finn…how many more lives will I take?”

She looks impossibly small in the moonlight, all golden hair and pale, pale skin, but he takes a risk, wraps an arm around her shoulders and lets her lean into him. “You’re strong, Clarke,” he tells her. “You carry people.” He pauses, remembers the night at the bunker, the determination in her voice and the belief in her eyes. He wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for her. “You carry me.”

She cries harder, digs her nose into his shoulder almost painfully. “I can’t do it anymore, Bellamy.”

He rubs her back with his free hand, slow, smooth circles that show her how steady he can be. “I know, but that’s why you have me. I’ll carry you until you can stand on your own.”

She stares up at him, heartbreakingly beautiful even as she cries. “You’ve changed.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I had to if I wanted to keep up with you.” He grasps her hand and slides his fingers between hers. “We’re partners right?” 

She nods and squeezes back. “Partners.” She reaches over and holds up a glass bottle. “Lexa gave me this as a symbol of our alliance. It’s a Grounder tradition to seal a deal with a drink.”

Bellamy thinks it’s likely a pre-cataclysm tradition too, but he doesn’t correct her, just settles back on his elbows while she pops the cork. The wine is sweet and fresh and a nice reprieve from the moonshine.

Clarke lies back beside him and looks up at the sky as they pass the bottle between them. She’s quiet for a long time and when she turns to him, he can see the stars reflected in the blue of her eyes. She brushes her fingers down the planes of his cheeks, lets her fingertips trail over the rough line of his jaw. “I’m heavier than you think,” she says, gives him one last out.

He smiles, all the way to his eyes, and presses his mouth against hers. She tastes like the wine, like summer on his tongue, and it lets him know that this is right. The world is falling apart, but _this_ is right. “I’m stronger than you know,” he says against her mouth. 

They fall back into the grass and he takes her weight, strokes circles across her back as she rests her cheek over his heart. 

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little weird for me. I usually write pure angst, but this leant more to towards the comedy vein. And occurred in a boy’s head. I tend towards female characters, so please forgive any errors in my portrayal of the opposite sex. There may or may not be a “Gossip Girl” quote in there too. Mock all you want; I likely deserve it. Title courtesy of Led Zeppelin amongst others. Enjoy.


End file.
